


The Sweet Tune that Followed

by wandering_scavenger



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is a Faceless Man, F/M, Post-War against the Others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_scavenger/pseuds/wandering_scavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There will always be hope. They had found it in each other once, but now he must seek it out on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweet Tune that Followed

**Author's Note:**

> songs: "Departed" and "I Will Not Forget You" from the Testament of Youth OST

_Life is not a song._

Jon had always known that, growing up a bastard had taught him enough harsh realities of the world. He was not Aegon the Dragon knight, he was not a true Stark as well. So when he had learned that he was no son of the honourable Eddard Stark, it seemed that there was nothing in his life that he could ever truly claim as his own.

 _Azor Ahai_ , they called him.

The Prince that was Promised, the hero that would vanquish the Others and bring an end to the long night. It was a suitable enough title for a man who could not be defeated by death. They called for a crown and meant to seat him on the Iron Throne, a dragon in wolf’s fur whose reign would ring true to the song of ice and fire. They are blind to the fact that he does not wish to be a King.

Life was not a song, but with her it was the sweet tune that followed the solemn hymn of the long gone.

He holds her in his arms, choking on his words as he pleads for her to stay with him, to fight and _live_. For all the glory that he was said to have brought back with him from the dead, he could not do the one thing that he swore he would give his own life for. If only he had been stronger. If only he had finished the war sooner. If only he had ridden for Winterfell faster.

_If only if only if only._

She is shivering, her face so devoid of colour—save for the soft blue in her eyes.

 _"_ Stay with me, love. Sam is coming. Stay with me, please, please, _please_. _"_ He whimpers as he rocked her back and forth, his sobs accompanying each sway of their bodies.

Their babe cries in his crib at the far corner of the room, but he cannot leave her.

He will not.

Her response comes in the form of her cold hand pressed to his cheek, eyes glistening with tears as they mix with his own that had dripped onto her beautiful face.

 _"_ Tell me that he is safe, Jon. Tell me that Ned is safe. _"_ She cries desperately, clutching his tunic as tightly as she can.

He nods quickly, stifling back another sob when he tries to calm her. Because it just hurts _too damn much_ to see her in such pain.The blood has drenched the entire carpet now, a pool of red that reminds him of the Battle of Castle Black.

_It is worse, so much worse._

Her eyes stray from his, squinting in pain as they fall upon the still form of the girl not five feet away from them. His wife lets out an agonised wail, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably when he pulls her closer to his chest. His hopes of keeping her from looking at the dead body cannot be helped, the image is forever imprinted in their fragile minds. He too cries, for he had dealt the fatal blow that killed the child who was once his beloved sister, _their_ sister.

 _No one._ She called herself as they duelled to the death.

There was a time that he might have swept her into his arms and begged for her to wake up, to open her eyes and see that she was home. But that illusion disappeared the moment she had plunged a blade into her own sister’s stomach, sending a high pitched scream along the halls of the stone castle. He had been so tired, a man of skin and bones amongst hundreds more. They had not seen his return coming, all the ravens had disappeared upon the White Walker's break through the Wall. Months of no contact made it seem as though the idea of a reunion with his family belonged to another life altogether. He remembers jolting to a run at the sound of the piercing cry, begging the Old Gods and New that it was not the voice that he had feared it to be.

But it was, and he will never stop cursing himself for the rest of his life if all is too late.

It makes him sick, sick to know that he feels no remorse for what he has done, only remorse that he had not been there to protect his wife and their child when the waif struck.

 _"_ Give her a proper burial, Jon. _"_ She chokes out, her face contorting in pain when she gasps.

Her grip is beginning to weaken.

 _"_ Don’t leave me, please. I can’t do this without you. _"_ He buries his face into the crook of her neck, feeling his tears wet her cold skin and press against the collar of her gown.

She smells of the Godswood, her autumn hair spills past her shoulders to meld together with her own crimson blood. He is thrust back to a time when they first made love, hidden amongst the bushes and shrubs and leaves in the playground of their childhood. She begged for forgiveness, wishing that she had not been tainted by another. It was excruciating—to see the self-loathing in her eyes—he was not ignorant to the past tortures that haunted her in her dreams. He remembers how he said that she was the Maiden incarnate, how he worshipped every inch of her body as she deserved and moved inside her until they were both boneless with ecstasy.

 _My wife._ He whispered endlessly against her lips, each reverent kiss on her bare skin a silent prayer to the Gods that witnessed their union.

 _"_ Take care of Ned. Promise me you’ll love him Jon, love him for the both of us. _"_

Her voice comes out strangled and soft, and the scar in his chest opens up until the flesh wound is exposed and bleeding with anguish; to leave this world with her has suddenly become the reward that he prays for in this world of Wights and ashes. There need not be any afterlife that awaited them, only the peace of knowing that they were tied to one another even in death.

 _"_ I promise. _"_ He replies, fighting to give her a smile.

She does not deserve to die, much less to die at the sight of his breaking heart. If this is to be their last moment together, he will kiss her and show her that she will depart from this world knowing that she is loved. And so he does just that, his mouth quivering against her soft lips when he lowers his face to meet hers.

 _"_ I love you, Sansa. _"_ He says.

She sees the dark fire in his eyes that make him unmistakably a dragon. She believes him, reaching out to drag the pad of her thumb along the corners of his wet eyes. Even when in pain, she only seems to care for his own.

 _"_ I love you, Jon Snow. _"_

There is a twinkle in her eyes when she whispers it, the very same that he never failed to see whenever she said so in the past. It is a personal proclamation of her love when she calls him by his birth name, Jon Snow. She loves him, whether he is a bastard or a king or the man that was once her half-brother.

When her chest stills against his and her grip goes slack, another wave of agony overcomes him. He howls with grief, hugging her body so tightly that he can feel more of her blood against the bare skin that peeked through his torn and ragged clothes. Years ago—when he had lost Ygritte—he could not cry, for it seemed that deep in his heart he knew that their story was destined for tragedy.

But he cries today, and he is not sure if he will ever be able to stop.

He had a future with Sansa, one of countless winters spent by the fireplace with their many children and making love to her when they were as old and grey as Winterfell itself.

Their daughters would have had her autumn hair and kind blue eyes; they would have named one of them Catelyn, for though he had no love for the woman, she had been the most brave and caring mother that he had ever seen. Their sons might have looked like Robb and Bran and Rickon, and he would have watched with amusement as she scolded them for hurting one another whenever they sparred in the practise yard.

That future is gone now, all that is left is a shell of a man and an entire kingdom in ruins.

When Sam finally arrives, Jon is forcibly torn from his wife. He is so hysterical that he does not hear the sound of his son’s cries growing louder and louder. They were so close. But even that was not enough.

He never leaves her side, foregoing sleep and food until Gilly shoves gruel into his mouth herself. He begins to resemble the creatures that he had spent months slaying, gaunt and pale, he could count each rib of his if he bothered to.

The Queen’s pyre is surrounded by hundreds of people, people that he knows loved and served her. He watches them weep and moan as she is slowly reduced to ashes, but they do not understand his pain.

They never will.

His chambers become a hiding place where no one but Sam can come to see him. The man’s visits are useless, for Jon never speaks. It remains that way for several more days, until his knees grow weak and his fingers never stop shaking. He is made to leave his quarters for fresh air, he only agrees to do so when Sam threatens to send other maesters up to his room to fuss over him.

The snow is melting; the ground is wet and muddy beneath his boots. He can smell spring, a fresh and earthy scent that assaults his senses like a green boy on his first pint of ale. She would have gasped with delight if she were with him at this moment, he can even feel her pulling him along the gardens to search for blooming flowers. He looks up and sees that the trees of the Godswood have begun to grow their red leaves.

_Red like her hair._

Grief overcomes him, urging him to turn on his heel and retreat back to his quarters before he breaks down. He follows his instinct and makes for the entrance to the castle, feeling his heart pound painfully against his chest as memories of her flood through his head. Her laugh, her smile, her tears, her kisses. Her—in all her beauty and imperfections and purity.

And then he hears it.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, threatening to trail down his ragged face if he attempted to blink them back. He bows his head when Gilly calls out his name, shame suddenly filling him when her voice is followed by a soft cooing and her son’s cheerful greeting directed at him. Her footsteps are coming closer, and it seems that fleeing is impossible.

Jon turns, his breath catches in his throat when he finds bright blue eyes staring up at him.

He is speechless at the sight.

 _"_ His mother used to take him out here everyday a moon after his birth. Would you like to hold him? " She asks, gesturing to the infant in her arms.

The lack of response on his part only encourages her, though it should have been an indication that he was unfit to do so. She hands the babe quickly before he can protest; fear fills him, he does not know how to handle a newborn, let alone hold one. When he looks down at the little creature, he notices minute details about the child, from the tuft of black curls on his head to the rosy colour of his bow-shaped lips. He does not bother to suppress the tears that escape when the infant looks up and flashes a toothless smile at him, he cannot. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes that are all too familiar to the man.

 _I know you._ The child’s gurgled coos said.

Jon leans down and presses a kiss to his son’s forehead, cradling the babe in a way that Sansa might instruct him if she had been there. Gilly and her child leave him with little Eddard after that, never casting so much as a glance in their way as the mother and son exited the Godswood.

 _"_ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _"_ He whispers, smiling down at the infant who squirmed at the touch of his rough beard.

His son cooed once more as he lightly stroked the babe’s head, nuzzling against the side of his neck for more warmth. Ned is so small, but the determined crease between his dark brows are enough for Jon to know that his wife’s son would grow strong, strong like his mother.

_I promise, Sansa._

Though she is gone, she did not forget to leave with him the melody that their sweet tune had made, the final proclamation of her love—their child. He was the one thing that Jon could finally claim as his own. Life would never be a song of heroes and happy endings, but perhaps this was the beginning of a different sort.

A song of the North’s rebirth.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Arya, I swear to the Old Gods and New.  
> I just couldn't help but write about how I feared Sansa would die before S6E08 came out.


End file.
